


Betrayal, Blurred at the Edges

by cadmean



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, dub-con, pre-darkspawn days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmean/pseuds/cadmean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But there are meetings and then there are <em>meetings</em>, and the longer this night’s drags on the more the Architect becomes convinced that, despite previous evidence to the contrary, Corypheus knows exactly what he is doing – has a goal in mind, for once."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Betrayal, Blurred at the Edges

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Неявное предательство](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5530349) by [Gianeya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gianeya/pseuds/Gianeya)



> [prompted](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12149.html?thread=47642229#t47642229) over at the kink meme.
> 
> this has the Architect as Zazikel's High Priest, simply because we've got Corypheus, arguably the most talkative villain of the whole series so far, as Dumat's, who was the Old God of _Silence_. So why not have Zazikel's -- OG of chaos/destruction -- be someone who creates?

Despite the lengthy consideration that went into it, along with all the nights spent poring over old tomes, the epithet the High Priest of Zazikel chose for himself is surprisingly simple. It holds nothing of the obvious delusions of importance their leader’s name carries, but neither is it as on the nose as some of the others’. Architect. The title makes him seem like something grand, like someone who creates – a human version of the Maker, and is that not fitting? It is. The way it’s supposed to be, the way things _will be_ once they return from the Fade.  
  
It’s still a long road until they will get there, however, made more difficult by the fact that Corypheus is adamant about getting the final say in all decisions. And it is difficult to argue with him. He is the High Priest of Dumat, after all, and as such he stands above even his fellow High Priests. It is a fact he does not let them forget, either. While all seven of them command armies of the devout and have spells at their beck and call that other mages would not even dare to imagine, it is Corypheus that leads them, Corypheus who directs their efforts, focuses their intentions. Corypheus who commands them.  
  
In practice, what it usually comes down to is Corypheus summoning the others simply because he can – the Architect suspects that he likes the power of it. Gathering six of the most important people in all of the Imperium to him on his merest whim, knowing full well that they’re none of them in a position to refuse. Not at this point. Not for a long time now.  
  
But there are meetings and then there are _meetings_ , and the longer this night’s drags on the more the Architect becomes convinced that, despite previous evidence to the contrary, Corypheus knows exactly what he is doing – has a goal in mind, for once. He is still getting lost in the rambling discourses he is so fond of, yes; yet by the end of their meeting the lines of allegiance are firmly drawn again, obvious for all to see even though none of them would ever dare speak it out loud.  
  
They are united in their devotion to their Gods, and the need to reach the Golden City of the Maker. Yes. That is undeniable. But nothing else binds them together save for the fact that they all have their own ulterior motives. It makes their meetings tense, uncomfortable things, and any major disagreements that do crop up are eventually forced to come to an end by Corypheus himself, raised hand and raised voice and a brief crackle of the power he wields. But mere power does not equal being right – as much as Corypheus might wish it – and so the Architect had found himself arguing unrelentingly against their leader’s newest scheme. It is something that has become an increasingly common occurrence, and so he is not surprised that, as the others get ready to leave, Corypheus calls the Architect over to him with a wave of his hand, bidding him to remain in the small hall the seven use for their meetings. A few of the others shoot him questioning glances as they depart – gleeful, in some cases, eager to have Corypheus’ second brought to heel after the way he spoke up against their leader – but the Architect does not acknowledge them and keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Eventually, he comes to a halt on the small raised dais at the far corner of the hall, standing in front of the old stone desk while Corypheus packs together the last few stacks of his notes. It is only when he has finally finished clearing up the desk that he looks up, cocking his head at the Architect in a manner that, from a less self-possessed man, could have been interpreted as a question.  
  
But this is Corypheus, and he does not ask. He demands, and although the Architect is not afraid to oppose him, he also knows when to pick his battles. “I continue to stand by my earlier point,” he says with a small, measuredly carefree shrug. “We will not succeed if you continue to get distracted by things which have no bearing on the larger picture.”  
  
The fingers wrapping around his throat and pushing him back against the stone wall are stained with the blood of a hundred thousand sacrifices, and though the Architect’s own are no different in that regard, Corypheus’ hands have never _created_ anything. Instead, they tear. They scrape. They dig in, tighter and tighter, until the Architect forces a low, pleading noise out of his straining lungs and makes a desperate grab for Corypheus’ wrist.  
  
Corypheus only laughs, grabbing tighter still – but it is a long-practiced game of theirs, and the Architect stops his struggle soon enough, and in turn Corypheus relents his grip. While the Architect is wholly occupied with doubling over in an effort to try and regain his breath, Corypheus is grabbing him by the shoulders and hauling him back towards the middle of the dais. By the time his legs hit the edge of the desk there the Architect has enough air again to sneer at Corypheus, his laughter dark and derisive even as he’s flipped around and his robes pushed up over his hips.  
  
Still, he does not resist. There is ample time to call up his magic as Corypheus rifles through the desk drawers, and more than enough room to kick out at him, too. He doesn’t. This was the expected outcome for this evening – planned, even – and if that weren’t the case, Corypheus could have seethed and steamed in self-righteousness all he liked. It wouldn’t have changed a thing – Corypheus is not so far gone yet that he would dare disrupt the fragile balance of power their group has finally found by publically forcing him to stay.  
  
And so, instead of fleeing, the Architect only turns his head far enough to the side so that he can look at Dumat’s High Priest. Raises an eyebrow. Says, “Is the truth in my reasoning perhaps bothering you, Sethius—“

His words have the expected result. With a snarl, Corypheus fists a hand in his hair and slams his head down on the table, hard, while his other hand goes to the Architect’s hip, holding him steady. There’s a moment of pain when he pushes inside – quickly washed away by a small healing spell on the Architect’s part, but it nevertheless makes him grab at the table, gritting his teeth. He can all but feel the smugness radiating off of Corypheus at that, and yet his own smile is just as wide: Corypheus can posture all he likes, but it doesn’t change the fact that if the right buttons are pushed, he is played all too easily. The triumphant smirk stays on the Architect’s face even as Corypheus starts moving, and neither the stinging pain of it nor the blunt fingernails digging into his flesh are enough to change that.  
  
Once Corypheus finds his pace, the Architect shifts his position slightly, pushing back to allow Corypheus to go deeper, harder – whatever it takes to please him. He is more talkative that way. More open to suggestions, to changes in that grand plan of his.  
  
“I was—wrong, in what I said.” The apologetic tone to the Architect’s voice is entirely on purpose, the breathlessness is not. “But you know we cannot afford to get distracted by these skirmishes to the east. Allow me to let my men handle them,“ he all but pleads. It is a pitiful piece of acting, and they both know it full well. Yet even false submissiveness goes a long way with Corypheus, and while a particularly sharp thrust is all the response he gets, the Architect knows that he’s won this argument.  
  
With a small, grateful nod he relaxes, giving in to Corypheus’ increasingly erratic thrusting. It’s only a bit longer until Corypheus comes almost noiselessly, shuddering and clawing at the Architect’s sides and that, in turn, sends him over the edge. They stay like that for a moment, bent over the desk, panting hard, until Corypheus pulls free and the Architect half turns, half slides onto the floor.  
  
“You have ten days,” Corypheus says to him, once more all haughty superiority and carefully-cultivated disdain, and it’s all the Architect can do to stop a smile from forming on his lips. He nods his thanks, remaining slumped against the side of the desk while Corypheus turns around and starts to make for the hall’s double doors.  
  
With the magister’s back now turned, the Architect lets out a relieved sigh. The raids on the old elven laboratories have all been carried out at his own command, and if he pretends to send soldiers to stop those raids, he may get a few more ancient artefacts out of it. Nobody needs to know. Nobody _will_ know, now, and the price he had to pay for it is almost laughable.  
  
Then Corypheus is inexplicably stopping, half-turning around until he meets the Architect's eyes. “I wish you the best of luck finding further elven artefacts, Architect,” he calls out. Those words, spoken in an uncharacteristically careless tone, have the Architect raising his hands protectively in front of himself before he's even properly aware of it, ready to ward off whatever magic Corypheus might throw at him in retribution. But nothing of the like happens, and, noticing the satisfied smirk on Corypheus' face, he quickly lowers his arms again. Can only sit there, staring at him, wide-eyed – for the first time that evening, the Architect is truly _afraid_. “But I suggest that, next time around, you take a bit more care who you entrust the details of your plans to. Unlike you, those men still know who they ultimately owe their loyalty to.”  
  
He makes his exit, then, leaving the Architect frozen to the spot and staring after him with an astonished expression on his face. Before long he breaks into a quiet, desperate sort of laughter, just sitting there, hunched over, head in his hands – only for a moment, though, and then the Architect, too, is back on his feet and hurrying out of the hall like a man hunted.


End file.
